


Welcome, Delicious Friend

by daymarket



Series: In the Matters of the Bazaar [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Gen, Neath Logic is Best Logic, Super Serious Erik is Super Serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik's on a super serious mission to kill Sebastian Shaw. The Neath politely begs to differ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome, Delicious Friend

**Author's Note:**

> A quick plot bunny brought to life! This turned out to be slightly more silly than I thought it would. Oh well! I'll probably write more soon; this sandbox is fun to play in.

_You’re drowning._

The thought is sudden and sharp in Erik’s head, cutting through his focus on Shaw’s submarine. Instinctively, he tries to suck in a breath, but there’s only thick, dirty water flooding his nose, pouring down his throat and setting him on fire. Ahead of him, the lights of Shaw’s submarine are dimming, and Erik would scream if he could at the helplessness of it all. It’s not fair. He got so close, and Shaw escaped him, and it’s all been for absolutely _nothing_ …

He kicks desperately, his body flailing on some last instinct to get to the surface. He doesn’t know which way is up anymore, though, and Erik knows with vivid clarity that he’s going to die. Shaw is free. There’s nothing he can do. And oh, dear, try not to breathe in any more water, the Stolen River really isn’t that good for you. The Curious Drownie will be there for you soon, don’t worry, just hang on…

…what.

Erik’s eyes snap open. There’s nothing but swirling blackness all around him: nobody and nothing, just the inevitable darkness as he dies. And now he’s floating through the void, thrown about on the endless currents as he descends deeper into the emptiness. Maybe he can curse Shaw before he dies. It didn’t do him any good as a child, but what does he have to lose. And we can think about things like that later once you’re up in the Neath, now _kick,_ you’re almost there!

Some last feeble shred of energy compels Erik to kick. He’s probably doing more harm than good as he flails all four limbs about, but he’s going up now—up and up and up and _up_! He’s out of the water, and air—glorious air—he’s choking, he’s dying all over again, he’s going to pass out—

A woman’s face appears in his vision, blurred and distorted. She’s saying words, he can tell that much, but his ears are ringing and he still feels like he’s on fire and really, passing out sounds like an excellent idea.

Why not? So he does.

* * *

“…that’s a mean lookin’ face, innit! Like to bite you as anything. Professor, you sure that you want ‘im here? Mrs. Plenty’s rentin’ out rooms on the cheap. The Daring Lion-Chaser got et yesterday.”

“He wasn’t rehired?”

“Shipped off to the Tomb Colonies as soon as he came back. Couldn’t work after that, eh?”

“Thank you, but I think it’s best if he stayed here. For your service—”

“Cor, thanks, Professor! Pleasure doin’ business.”

“Of course. Do send my regards to the Fisher King.”

Erik keeps his eyes shut. There’s the click of a latch, and then the barely discernable sound of bare feet on wood. He keeps his breathing slow and steady even as his mind spins, trying to assess the situation. He’s not dead. He’s on a bed under a warm blanket. He’s not dead. There’s the faint smell of tea and honey and wool in the air. Also, he’s not dead.

“Whenever you’re ready to get up,” a pleasant, strangely-accented voice says, “I’ve got some nice rubbery lumps on the stove downstairs. Moira gave me a recipe that I’ve wanted to try for a while, and it’ll do you some good to get hearty food into you.”

Erik clamps down the sudden surge of adrenaline. The voice is oddly familiar, but he can’t quite place it. Whoever this person is, though, they saved him from wherever he landed after he died (didn’t die), so they must be—if not actually friendly—at least not actively hostile. Shaw’s minions wouldn’t bother saving him, much less put him in a bed. Unless this a trick. Also, rubbery lumps?

He abandons the pretense and opens his eyes. The room is lit with an old-fashioned candle lamp, and Erik stares at it for a moment before looking around. A man stands near the doorway, and Erik sits up, studying him. Soft, rounded. The first voice called him “Professor”—so he’s an academic, pampered and sheltered. Striking blue eyes, short wavy hair, and old-fashioned clothing that’s quite a few years out of date.

“Hello!” the man says, giving him a half-wave. “How are you feeling? The Curious Drownie thought you might be more at home in the water, but I think you managed to cough up enough that the Stolen River might not suit you as a lifestyle choice.”

His words make no sense. Erik blinks at him, wondering vaguely if the odd accent is causing him to miss words. “I’m fine,” he says at last. He looks around. “Where am I?”

“You are in my townhouse,” the man says. “I could give you the precise street name and number, but I don’t think that it really matters to you at this point. What’s more important is that you’re in the Neath. London, to be precise.”

Erik stares at him. “London?” he says, and he wants to laugh. “London was destroyed half a century ago. You’re either lying or mad.”

“Well, I have been known to do both on occasion,” the man says with a smile. “But no—I’m not lying to you, and I think I’m reasonably sane at the moment. Are you hungry, my friend? The news will go down much better with food.”

Erik looks at him. Madman or not, Erik can still overpower him if need be—it’s not like there aren’t plenty of weapons that he can use. Erik will wait for the man to eat the food before he even touches it. He nods.

“Excellent!” the man says. “I’m Charles. Charles Xavier.” He pauses expectantly.

“Erik,” Erik says.

He doesn’t offer a last name, and the man—Charles—doesn’t pressure him. “Hello, Erik,” he says. “Come along, then.”

Cautiously, Erik stands up and follows him. The hallway and staircase leading downwards are all dimly lit with strange green candles. The décor is as outdated as Charles’ clothing. Charles leads him into the more brightly kitchen, and Erik sits down warily at one of the kitchen stools. There’s a cat on the table, and he eyes it distrustfully. It glares back.

“Now, Raven always says that I’d burn wine if I could, but I happen to think that she’s exaggerating terribly,” Charles says as he places a bowl in front of Erik. There’s something…brown in it, and Erik pokes at it tentatively with the offered silverware. It smells strange, to say the least, and this Raven—whoever he is—isn’t too far off from the mark. “There you go. And one for me, and one for you,” he adds, placing the third bowl in front of the cat.

“Opposable thumbs,” the cat says, and Erik stares at it. “That’s your only advantage, Charles, and you know it.”

“Hush, Raven,” Charles says. “Try it, at least, I think this new recipe’s rather good.”

The cat pulls a face, which is something that Erik didn’t know that cats could do. “Ugh, now I know it’s going to be bad,” it says. “Are you trying to kill him on his first day down here? Are you trying to kill _me_?”

“It’s not that bad, surely!” Charles protests. “Erik, take a bite, tell me what you think.” Both cat and human turn to look at Erik with slitted yellow and wide blue eyes respectively. There’s an expectant silence.

“Did that cat just talk,” Erik says blankly.

The cat makes a low, rumbling sound. “You picked a slow one,” it remarks. “Sure he didn’t get some water in the brain? It’s not too late to throw him to the Drownies.”

“Erik,” Charles says. “This is my adopted sister, Raven. Raven, this is Erik. I found him while trying out the new honey. It’s splendid, by the way, I think I’ve made a breakthrough with the new flower.”

“Hmph. Pleasure,” Raven says, making it sound like anything but. Her tail arches up, and Erik gets a faceful of fluff before she nimbly moves away and begins lapping at the contents of the bowl. Erik continues to stare at her, his mind whirling furiously. Cats don’t talk. London doesn’t exist. Is he really not dead? Death seems like a more plausible theory by the second. How does one go about testing one’s death, exactly? Should he stab himself?

“Erik,” Charles says, and Erik turns woodenly to look at him. “Are you all right? You should eat. You've had a rough journey, after all."

Spoon in hand. Spoon in bowl. Spoon in mouth. Erik chews mechanically and then swallows. It’s not as bad as Raven (the cat? _the cat?_ ) claims. “Rubbery lumps?” he says at last, his mind seizing on the first thing it can.

“Fresh from the docks,” Charles affirms, digging into his own bowl with gusto. “The Hearty Zailor always puts some of his best aside for me, nice fellow. So. What brings you to London?”

Erik studies him. This _must_ be one of Shaw’s tricks of some sort, but everything, from the old-fashioned comfort of Charles’ home to the _talking cat_ , says otherwise. Well, there's one way he can find out. Saying the truth won’t reveal anything that Shaw doesn’t already know, and if nothing else, it might be able to throw this strange man for a loop. “I’m trying to kill someone,” Erik says at last. He makes sure to keep his voice flat and cold as he watches Charles carefully for a reaction.

To his utter surprise, Charles laughs. “That’ll be the Black Ribboners you want, then,” he says cheerfully. “I’ll introduce you tomorrow if you like.”

“What,” Erik says.

Raven looks up. “Ooh,” she says. “With that kind of can-do spirit, he’s going to fit right in.”

Charles grins. “Welcome to London, delicious friend.”


End file.
